


Diminutive

by PrincessSkylar



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Illya gets hurt, gunshot wound, kind of a drabble?, wingman Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSkylar/pseuds/PrincessSkylar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya gets hurt while on a mission, and is confined to bedrest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diminutive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from moonwolfhowl on Tumblr: Someone calls Illya, Ilyusha because it is the Russian Diminutive form of Illya, but not in a condescending/sarcastic/teasing way but in a sweet and tender kind of way. Like maybe after he was hurt or something?
> 
> This is my first TMFU fanfiction, and I haven't quite gotten their mannerisms down yet, so feel free to point out anything I did wrong! Also, as usual, I only speak English, so all of the Russian was found through Google Translate. I know, cheap. Feel free to correct me!

One second he was running for his life, less than a meter from his exit, next thing he knew, he was hurtling towards the ground (a rather long fall for a man his size). Illya caught himself on his palms and instantly sought out the cause of his mishap. He saw the blood before he felt the pain, and he was already scrambling to move again before it processed in his mind that he had been shot.

 

He turned and returned fire on his pursuer, aiming to injure, but feeling no remorse when the man fell entirely flat on his face. He hauled himself back onto his feet and moved quickly towards the door, even as he heard more guards approaching behind, and more gunfire ricocheting off of the walls around him. He had no time to beeline or hobble, so he sucked up the pain and darted towards the door.

 

Outside he was greeted by a large black VolksWagen, the door of which had been flung open, and out of which leaned Napoleon, bracing himself with one hand and reaching towards Illya with the other, as Gaby shot at his pursuers from the driver’s window.

 

Illya took Solo’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled into the vehicle, the door was slammed behind him. Panting, the Russian leaned against the wall of the hollowed out car, opposite the door. He winced slightly and grabbed his leg, where the bullet had entered, hoping to slow the bleeding.

 

He looked up to see Napoleon staring at him from across the car in slight shock. “You’re hurt,” he pointed out.

 

“I hadn't noticed,” Illya bit back, glaring at the American.

 

“How bad is it?” Gaby demanded, glancing back at them in the rearview mirror.

 

“I will live,” Illya answered flatly, leaning back to avoid looking at the blood pouring from the wound. As tough as he was, it still made him uncomfortable to see large amounts of blood coming from his own body. He gestured at Solo with his chin. “Did you find anything?”

 

“Do we need to go to a hospital?” Gaby demanded, before Solo had the chance to answer.

 

Illya shook his head. “They know I was hurt, they may look for us there,” he reasoned, before returning his attention to Solo.

 

“Illya, do you need a doctor?” Solo asked in an uncharacteristically serious tone.

 

“Niet,” Illya answered, even as he started to feel dizzy. He was getting a bit annoyed by their concern, mainly because he needed to know if their mission was a success. He blinked away black spots in his vision. “Just get me something to stop the bleeding.” As he spoke, he heard his usually powerful tone dwindle into tire.

 

“Here,” Gaby pulled out the handkerchief that had been holding up her hair and held it over her shoulder.

 

Napoleon reached up to take the scarf, before crawling closer to Illya. “Where is it?”

 

Illya glared at him, before gesturing to his leg with his head. “I’m pretty sure it’s the bleeding hole in my leg.”

 

“Right,” Solo muttered, before moving to wrap up Illya’s thigh.

 

He finished, and Illya leaned his head back again, huffing in discomfort. He could feel Solo’s gaze on him and met his eyes with an irritated, “What?”

 

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Napoleon asked, revealing glimpses of genuine emotion. It kind of pissed Illya off.

 

“I will be fine,” Illya insisted. “I have had worse.” Again, the venom died down in his voice. He realized he was getting really tired, and he blinked some more to try and stay awake. “How much further to hotel?” he asked.

 

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Solo answered, turning his head to look out the windshield.

 

Illya took a deep breath and looked down at the car floor, watching the blood running towards the back of the car. He distantly wondered if any would make it’s way out of the car and onto the road. He could feel the exposed parts of his flesh throbbing in pain, as blood poured from various veins. He could feel the bullet lodged deep inside of him.

 

In the darkness of the late night, Illya didn’t notice the corners of his vision turning black, until it swallowed up his entire line of sight, he was vaguely aware that he was passing out before the world went completely dark.

 

**…**

 

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was his throbbing head. He slowly became aware of other things around him: the soft pillow to which his face was pressed, the sharp throbbing in his thigh, the dryness of his throat and rumbling hunger in his stomach, the weight of another body on the bed, seated next to his leg.

 

Illya pried his eyes open and turned his head. He identified the other bed occupant as Gaby, her eyebrows drawn and her lips pursed as she focussed intently on a book in her hands. She was wearing a different outfit than she had been during their escape, indicating that quite some time had passed. He looked up at the window by the bed, the curtains were drawn, but he could see bits of sunlight breaking through.

 

He licked his lips and started to shift, yanking Gaby’s attention away from her book. “How long was I asleep?” he asked, his voice scratching in his throat.

 

Gaby set her book down and smiled cautiously. “How do you feel?”

 

“ _Govenno,_ ” Illya grumbled, before rolling carefully onto his back. Gaby frowned slightly and glanced away, trying to recall that word. She turned back to Illya with a questioning look, and he almost wanted to smile. “Shit,” he translated, and she nodded in understanding.

 

“There’s water on the bedside table for you,” Gaby explained, gesturing.

 

Illya nodded gratefully and moved into a sitting position, before reaching over and drinking the whole cup. He set the glass aside and took a deep breath. “You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out. Gaby frowned, and he clarified, “How long?”

 

“Oh, just a few hours,” Gaby answered.

 

“It was a close call,” spoke a deep, American voice, from the doorway. Illya looked up to see Napoleon leaning on the door frame, a dainty apron tied around his waist. He was smiling charmingly, but his eyes betrayed his relief. “You almost bled out.”

 

“I suppose I am lucky, then,” Illya commented with a slight shrug, carefully masking the bit of fear that twisted around his heart at that thought.

 

“You’ll be on bed rest for a few days,” Solo added, “Gaby and I will finish the mission by ourselves, and--”

 

“Absolutely not,” Illya interrupted, incredulous, “I am still perfectly capable of performing my job.”

 

“Illya,” Gaby said softly, placing a hand on his knee and looking at him with a gentle, pleading expression. “You lost a lot of blood. We can take care of ourselves.”

 

Illya turned his glare on her, and found it being snuffed out by her encouraging smile. It was always so hard to be angry at her. He sighed. “Fine,” he relented bitterly.

 

Napoleon clapped his hands together. “Now! Who’s hungry?”

 

Illya’s stomach answered for him, and Gaby laughed. “I think we all are,” she answered.

 

**…**

 

Illya had dealt with a lot of aggravating things in his life. His treatment at the KGB, electric shock therapy, various means of physical and psychological tortures, stupid people, being shot, nearly dying, being hit with a car, talking to Napoleon, but out of all of the horrible things he had endured, none of it was as excruciating as _idle waiting._

 

He sat on the bed, his one good leg pulled up, his elbow resting on it. He glared at the wall, his right pointer finger tapping impatiently on his bad thigh.

 

Solo and Gaby had left an hour ago. He had tried to distract himself, listening to the radio, watching the television, reading a book, he was too anxious to focus. So for the past half-hour, he had sat, glaring at the wall, and imagining various horrible scenarios in which one or both of his partners didn’t return. It wasn’t making him feel better.

 

He had never felt so worried for another person since they had taken his father. It concerned him how much he had come to care for the two of them.

 

He felt inclined, in his anxiety, to go for a run, or attack a punching bag. Given the current situation, he could do neither. He felt as though he was going insane.

 

Six impossibly long hours passed, glaring at the wall, trying unsuccessfully to think about something other than what he would do if he was the only man from U.N.C.L.E. left. He honestly didn’t know how he survived that long. Finally, after the excruciating wait, the door opened.

 

He jumped up eagerly, staring at the entryway from which they would enter the room. Apprehension swelled painfully in his chest. He heard Solo’s voice first, quiet and concerned. “Do you think he’s still awake?”

 

Then, to his huge relief, Gaby spoke, “I think he’d want to know that we are okay, regardless.”

 

“You are terrible at being quiet!” Illya called to them. The two went silent for a moment, before Gaby walked into the room first, a kind smile on her face. Illya’s attention was immediately drawn to a bloody cloth wrapped around her upper arm, through which blood was leaking. His eyes darted between her arm and her face. “What happened?” he demanded.

 

“It’s nothing,” Gaby assured him, “Just a scratch.”

 

“Let me see,” he ordered, gesturing for her to come closer.

 

Gaby walked over to the bed with a barely suppressed smirk, and sat on the edge of the bed, her hurt arm towards Illya.

 

Illya carefully started to remove the cloth. “Was it properly cleaned?”

 

“Yes,” Gaby confirmed, a smile breaking onto her face. She looked up at Solo, and they shared a knowing look.

 

Illya glared between the two, silently questioning them, before turning back to the injury. He inspected the wound carefully. It did, in fact, appear to be nothing more than a minor cut. He nodded approvingly. “This is alright. Get another bandage for it.”

 

“Sure thing,” Gaby replied, standing back up. He held out her hand deliberately, and Illya handed her the bloody bandage. She left the room quickly.

 

Illya watched her leave, before flipping around and turning an icy glare on Solo. “If anything happens to her, Cowboy, I will murder you with my bare hands,” he threatened.

 

Solo nodded gravely, his playful smirk fading. He turned his attention to the door through which Gaby had disappeared. “When are you going to tell her?” he asked.

 

Illya’s glare flickered in confusion. “Tell her what?” he demanded defensively.

 

Solo met Illya’s gaze again, his blue eyes intense. Strange, inexplicable emotions swam in his gaze, putting Illya a bit off. He smothered them with another boyish grin. “How you feel about her.”

 

That caught the Russian a bit off-guard. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or… Or what? He glanced at the doorway, aware she could return at any moment. He decided to play defensive. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

 

Solo shook his head and sighed. “You two are impossible.”

 

Illya glared at him. “This does not concern you.”

 

“So, you do have feelings for her?”

 

Illya’s hand curled into a fist. “I did not say that.”

 

Solo held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say, Peril,” he relented.

 

Gaby reentered the room then, a clean bandage around her arm, and pajamas covering her body. She smiled tiredly when Illya looked up at her. “All better,” she announced, moving towards her own bed, next to Illya’s. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

 

“Like caged animal,” Illya answered. He was distantly aware of Solo moving towards the bathroom. “How was the mission?”

 

Gaby shrugged as she pulled aside her bedsheets and started to climb in. “It seems like every answer leads to more questions,” she answered with a sigh.

 

Illya clenched his jaw, wishing he was able to help instead of being stuck behind. He watched as Gaby settled under her blankets.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Gaby said softly, “Napoleon and I will figure it out. And we’ll be fine.”

 

Part of Illya wanted to chide her on making promises she couldn’t keep, but another, stronger part of him, appreciate her attempts to calm him. Not that he would admit it. He sighed in resignation. “I know.”

 

Gaby smiled. “I’m going to sleep now,” she announced, closing her eyes. “You should get some sleep, too.”

 

“I will,” Illya assured her, though he made no move to try and lie down. He still felt anxious, and knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a few more hours still. “Good night, little chop-shop girl.”

 

“ _Dobroy nochi, Ilyusha_ ,” Gaby replied.

 

Illya smiled, marvelling how quickly she was learning Russian. Then his smile quickly faded into a confused frown. “Wait, where did you learn to say that?” The last person to call him Ilyusha had been his mother.

 

Gaby hummed. “You mean the nickname? Solo told me,” she explained, “He explained how they work differently in every language.” She laughed softly. “We were trapped in a basement for a long time. We talked about a lot of things.”

 

Illya sat up all the way. “You were trapped?” he demanded, concern growing.

 

“I’ll tell you more tomorrow,” Gaby muttered, frowning slightly. “Let me sleep.”

 

Illya huffed and leaned back. “Fine. Good night.”

 

Gaby’s smile returned. “Good night, Ilyusha,” she repeated.

 

This time, Illya smiled a bit. He kind of liked the way the word sounded from her. He watched in silence as Gaby’s breath slowed down, falling into the steady rise-and-fall of sleep. She always looked so peaceful when she slept, her soft features relaxing, the worries of missions and politics melting away.

 

The firm looks of concentration and irritation disappeared during these times, leaving her looking entirely vulnerable and innocent. It was a strange and lovely contrast, though, no matter what emotions she displayed, she was always beautiful.

 

Solo walked through the door on the opposite side of Gaby’s bed. He wore only an undershirt and boxers (he seemed to have some sort of aversion to pajamas) and was smiling at Illya knowingly.

 

Illya glared at him. “Not one word, cowboy,” he whispered.

 

Solo shrugged. “Whatever you say, _Ilyusha_ ,” he teased, before shutting off the light.

 

Illya huffed into the darkness, before sinking all the way into his covers. He could hear Solo doing the same on the other side of the room.

 

A few seconds after they had both settled in, Illya said, “You know, it’s not cute when you say it.”

 

Solo chuckled. “If you say so, peril.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The electric shock therapy I mentioned is based on a headcanon shared with me by the lovely centuriespoisonedyouth, also on Tumblr.  
> I’m really grateful to moonwolfhowl for asking me to do this because 1) it’s been FOREVER since I’ve written anything (those of you waiting for the Dying sequel know what I’m talking about) and 2) I wasn't entirely sure what the word "diminutive" meant before writing this, so to make sure I didn't mess anything up, I looked them up. (I read a gigantic list of Russian diminutives on tvtropes and it was actually pretty cool.) It had never occurred to me before that different languages would have unique systems of nicknames.
> 
> EDIT: so all of my medical knowledge comes from random internet articles I find, and the research for this was both difficult and inconclusive and basically I goofed and wrote something that didn't make scientific sense!  
> So I've changed it. I decided not to fix it by actually doing more pointless research and instead I'm cutting out a couple lines. 
> 
> Tl;dr: Instead of Solo saying the thing about a femoral artery... He doesn't say that thing.


End file.
